Puncture Wounds
by Tiranas Goldfish
Summary: POV Dirk, T for language. AU with no SBURB, all the kids are visiting Jake's island.  Dirk gets pretty badly injured saving Jake, Jake is beat up about it, feelings ensue. Broship, more in later chapters. Reviews more than welcome.
1. Chapter 1

**((A/N: First fic or really creative writing of any kind in the last 6 years, so constructive criticism is greatly appreciated. Dirk's POV.))**

The first thing that registers in your brain is pain, because _fuck_ you hurt. There's a dull throbbing in your brain, some light stinging on your hands and knees, and the holy mother of physical suffering in your shoulder. You make the mistake of using both your arms to push yourself into a sitting position and fuck, fuck that was a bad idea. Deep breaths. Calm down, take deep breaths. While your lungs rattle with barely suppressed panic—not cool man, you're supposed to be in charge here—it's a good thing to know that they otherwise appear to work. But why do you hurt so much? What happened? What is that god awful noise you hear? Where the fuck are you?

You realize that you can probably find an answer for the last one if you just open your eyes, and you do. The light is almost blinding at first, adding another overload to your senses, but it starts to fade after a few moments, much to your relief. You squint and shade your eyes with a hand and manage to make out a face up there—oh, Jake. Maybe he can tell you what happened, if he can stop—

—if he can stop—

Is he crying? Oh god, hes crying, fuck. You aren't sure you can deal with that, because you desperately want to hold him and tell him everything is going to be okay, shoosh, it's all good, but you don't even know what happened. You don't know that it's going to be okay. Still, you have to say something to him.

The first time you try, your throat is dry enough that it comes out as little more than a croak. Jake hurriedly undoes a tie at his belt and uncorks the old-fashioned waterskin he carries with him. You drink gratefully from it as he holds carefully it to your mouth, then when you're done you try to speak again, attempting to ignore those warm, rough hands wiping sweat from your face.

"Jake," please stop crying, "What the fuck happened, bro?"

He stares at you for a moment, disbelief obvious on his face. "What do you mean, _what happened?_ The addled dingbat that you are, you took a spear through your shoulder! I thought it went through your blasted heart!" Oh, that's right. You were "adventuring." You, and Jake, and...

"Where is Roxy?" A tang of blood and another sharp pain on your lips causes you to lick them. "Where did she go, why isn't she here too? Did something happen to her?"

"She ran off to get more bandages, and a proper medical kit. You, um, blast, you're bleeding through the ones we have on your now. We didn't have enough to stop it, and I didn't want to leave you alone when there are plenty of perfectly frightful fauna traipsing about just ready for a meal, but we were afraid to move you too much becau—" His voice starts to rise in pitch and your ears begin to protest. You shove your hand against his mouth, careful to use your good arm.

"Shut up, English." Play it cool. Keep your calm, don't let him see how much it really hurts or he'll really freak out. "Bro, you're getting hysterical. Chill out for a moment." You cup his face in your hand, thumb stroking his cheek and wiping away his tears, and his own hands cover yours as you try to adopt a more soothing tone. "Shhhh. Breathe. Just breathe. Shooosh."

He takes a few large, shuddering breaths before meeting your eyes and cracking a weak smile. "I'm a downright mess, now, aren't I chum? I'm supposed to be looking after you, and you're the one taking care of me."

Ffffuck your shoulder hurts, but at least the pain has started to clear your mind, let you remember what happened before you lost consciousness. Jake had found some ruins a while back, saved them just so he could share them with you when he entered them for the first time. You'd gotten past the first few rooms fine, avoiding the swinging blades here, disabling the poison gas there. Then he'd gotten careless, triggered something, a trap. You had been the one to shove him out of the way, flashstepping across the room.

You crane your neck to glance at your wounds. You can still flex the muscles and feel everything fine, though you might wish the latter point wasn't true at the moment. There was a much smaller damage area than you expected. "It must not have been a very big spear."

"It wasn't meant for fighting, Strider. It doesn't even have to survive the first hit, as long as it does damage." He swallows. "You stopped it from going all the way through, but it definitely cut through some muscle and we don't know what else."

His breathing is getting harder again and you aren't really sure what to do, but you move your hand to the back of his head and tug his face down to yours. Eyes closed, you press your forehead to his and murmur comfortingly as you try to think of what to do next. A sudden bout of dizziness reminds you that you're still bleeding. Shit. Puncture wound, and you're bleeding out.

"Okay, Jake? Jake, I need you to listen to me. We need to stop the bleeding—" His breath catches, and you stroke his hair, forcing yourself to disregard how soft it is, or how your mouths are so close that you're practically sharing each breath. "I need you to apply pressure to the wound, do you hear me?" He jerks back and you open your eyes to see his startling green ones filled with worry and confusion. You cut him off before he can begin to speak. "Pressure will help stop the bleeding. I need you to do that for me."

He asks anyways. "But won't that bloody hurt?"

Yes, yes it will. Of course it will. Fuck, it hurts so bad already you're about ready to chop the thing off and be done with it, but you grit your teeth and steel yourself for what's coming.

"Do it. Bleeding out is worse. And don't let up unless you're wrapping more bandages or something, or you'll just jostle it and make it worse."

It takes him a long moment to convince himself that he can do it. He takes the hand that's been holding him in place and squeezes it before letting go and shifting to have a better position by your shoulder. Then, slowly, he presses down on your wound.

You can't help it. A tiny whimper escapes your lips. Before, you'd been doing your best to ignore it, focusing on Jake, trying to calm him down, taking comfort in him, but now the pain has free reign on your mind and fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_ it hurts. Fiery daggers stab in your shoulder and neck while razor-edged lightening shoots down your arm. It takes a pretty hefty chunk of will just to keep yourself from yanking away or shoving Jake off of you. You dimly register him saying something, and someone else answering—female, Roxy?—before you let yourself pass out into the cool darkness tugging at the edges of your vision.


	2. Chapter 2

**((A/N: First fic or really creative writing of any kind in the last 6 years, so constructive criticism is greatly appreciated. Dirk's POV.))**

When you next wake up, it's because someone is lightly slapping your cheeks. Roxy. You fuzzily down the drink she holds to your lips, alcohol no doubt mixed with a painkiller that won't kill you when you're smashed. It's enough to make you slip back into oblivion after a few moments, but you're awake long enough to feel a familiar rough hand holding yours.

This time you're prompted into consciousness by a sudden lack of warmth on your good arm. You crack your eyes open and see your bro rub sleep from his brilliant green eyes and put his glasses on. Noting that the pain in your shoulder has subsided to a dull throb, you use your better one to move yourself into a sitting position. Your struggle, and it's silly that you should have to struggle to do this, is interrupted by Jake taking over and pulling you up. You rest gratefully against his strong arm on your back until he sets you up against the headboard and pulls away.

"Jane and Roxy told me to give you this when you wake up." Another cup is thrust in front of your face. This time you grab it, intending to drink on your own, but he just wraps his hand around yours and guides the drink for you anyways.

"I think I could do that on my own," you drawl as he takes the cup away. "Really, I have the strength to hold a glass." He sits back down on the dresser he'd been using as a stool. Almost automatically, his hand reaches out for yours, and your heart skips a beat before he thinks the better of it and withdraws. You grab his hand without thinking and only belatedly realize you probably shouldn't if you're going to keep up your whole cool kid farce.

Fuck it, you're drugged and mildly drunk. There is no better time to act like a sap. You can always pass it off as ironic later, or a bro thing. Instead you squint your eyes against the light of the room while you pretend you're not incredibly relieved that he gave your hand a little understanding squeeze back and isn't taking his own back. Just like earlier, things seem far too bright, the light too harsh and the white of the walls too sharp.

"English. Where are my glasses?" Shit. He can see your eyes. You have no wall between him and your feelings.

He hesitates too long before responding, and you're worried a note of panic managed to worm its way into your voice when he pulls them out of a pocket in his shorts. You don't understand why he won't meet your eyes until he shows you the hinges. They aren't irreparable in the least, but they will require a little bit of work to bend back into shape, something you can't do in your current state.

"When did that happen?" You sigh and lean your head back, letting your eyelids slide shut for ta moment. You don't want to meet his eyes, not when you don't have any kind of barrier.

"When I was carrying you out of the ruins, the damned things were digging into my skin." He bares his throat for you to see the thin scratches running along one side and along his collarbone. It's a wonder you hadn't noticed before, hyper attentive as you are to Jake, but you chalk it up to distraction and drugs. You want to kiss those welts all along his neck and are horrified at the blush that is creeping into your cheeks at the thought. "I put them in my pocket so they would stop distracting me, but I think I must have smashed them against the wall at some point." He glances at you and you force yourself to meet his eyes, pushing your earlier thoughts as far away as you can.

"What? It's not a problem. I'll just fix them later."

"No, not that. Are you quite sure you're all right ol' chap? You look like you're burning up."

And suddenly you find it difficult to breathe as the heat rushes to your face because his is right in front of you, forehead pressed against yours again. For a moment you think you might as well kiss him now and get it over with, because you're not likely to get a better chance, but just as suddenly he pulls away, brow furrowed with concern.

"You have a fever! And curse it all, Dirk, if you're having trouble breathing, tell me! I need to go get Jane and Roxy and see if they can figure out what the bloody hell is wrong now."

You tighten your hold on his hand when he tries to leave. Concern is replaced by puzzlement as you try to tug him back to you. "There's not a problem."

"Don't you take me for a cretin, Strider! If you're sick—"  
>"I'm not sick." You suppress the horrible, horrible urge to giggle at him, mostly because that is the most un-Strider-like thing you can possibly think of right now and would definitely make him bolt for the girls. It's apparent to you that the alcohol is clouding your thoughts, because right now all you can think about is how goddamn attractive Jake is and how nice it would feel to cuddle up against his chest and kiss him until you really do have to catch your breath.<p>

"Not sick," he repeats, obviously not believing you.

It doesn't matter. He's staying, which is really what you wanted. Your stomach churns as your realize you're actually serious about confessing to him right now. "I just need some water, Jake. Don't turn this into a thing when all I need is a little water."

Luckily for you there's a pitcher and matching glass set out on a dresser identical to the one Jake is on, not more than a foot from the bed. He pours you a cup and lets you manage it yourself this time, but you nearly choke anyways when he asks you out of fucking nowhere, "Good man, what on earth possessed you to let yourself get hit by a spear?"

You do your best not to splutter and gulp down the rest of your water before slamming it down and glaring at him as he paces. "Last time I checked, you're the one who triggered the trap and nearly got himself killed. Sorry for giving enough of a fuck to save you. I thought that was something bros did, take care of each other."

"When does saving me equate to getting yourself killed?"

"Since I have to flashstep from across the room to rescue your reckless ass! I didn't even know what I was saving you from until I'd already gotten there! We're lucky we didn't all die because of your inability to sit still for a fucking moment while we scope things out instead of charging in like a bull."

"But why would you die when—"

You grab him by the shirt and yank his head down to your level, head no longer fizzing. "Jake English. Would you die for me?"

He stares at you a moment, dumbfounded, before he can cry out in rage. "Of course I would! Why the devil-fucking dickens would you even ask something like that?"

"Then why would you ever expect me to do less for you?" Anger had cleared up your alcohol-induced fog efficiently. You sigh and force yourself to calm down, lessening your grip on his collar and resting your head against his chest. The fight is gone from him.

"I—I must apologize. That was dreadfully out of line from me." He pulls back and offers you a callused hand. His other one plays nervously with the hem of his shirt and he seems to be having a hard time meeting your eyes as he fidgets in place, but when he does, the pleading look makes you feel like you'd be a monster to refuse. Not that you would anyways. It's nearly impossible to stay angry with him for any length of time. You shake.


	3. Chapter 3

**((A/N: First fic or really creative writing of any kind in the last 6 years, so constructive criticism is greatly appreciated. Dirk's POV.))**

A few days later, you and Jake find out that the girls had been eavesdropping almost the entirety of your conversation, so maybe it was a good thing you didn't take the chance to reveal your affections. You get your next chance a few days later, but in the meanwhile, you relished the amount of attention you were getting from Jake, free of worries about his mental state or your physical one.

Presently, he's re-wrapping your shoulder with clean bandages, balanced with one knee on the bed between yours and his other foot on the ground. You put one arm around his waist, to "balance" him, and rest your head in the crook of his neck. He won't let you even lift your arm for him yourself, which results in some awkward shuffling, but eventually the two of you work something out and you're free to admire him while he works.

It doesn't last as long as you'd like, though, and eventually he begins to remove that toned body of his. You hesitate a second before resisting the movement. He continues to push off you for a moment before realizing that you're trying to stop him, then halts and tenses up.

"Strider...?"

His leg is pressed up against your thigh now, and it's spectacularly distracting. Your arm around his waist is what holds him up, his hands at arms length on your shoulder. You curse that you can only use one arm right now, but you make the best of it sliding your hand up his back and to his head, pulling him closer all the while, remembering how those muscles feel as he squirms, because this might be the last chance you get with them.

"Uhm, Strider, what—"

You cut him off mid-sentence, mouth pressed up against his for just a moment before you let him go. God that felt good, his mouth soft against yours and his glasses digging into your nose, and you want to do it again and again, but you can't bring yourself to do it when he's looking at you like that, and you remember again how you don't have your shades to protect yourself from those emerald eyes. Maybe it's for the best, because you feel like you would be a total asshole to hide from him now. Either way, you let your hand drop and lean back while you wait for his brain to work again.

"What the dickens was that about?"

"I should think that would be obvious by now. Or do you need me to spell it out?" He only stares at you, so you continue as if with the affirmative. "I, Dirk Strider, have the most unironic homosexual crush on my bro Jake English, sole groundskeeper of Hell Island. All my ironic jokes about loving his sweet ass can be taken as literally and synecdochically as possible. Is that good enough?"

He's blushing pretty hard now as he looks away, and it only makes him more attractive. "Synecdochically?"

"Part refers to the whole; your ass refers to you. I love you, not just your ass."

You didn't think the red on his face could get any more adorable, but then you notice pink on the tips of his ears and now you're turning a little red too, because fuck that is cute. It's hard enough to stay the clear-headed one in this without him practically in your lap he's so close. Which reminds you, he hasn't exactly moved very far away, what with his leg still on the bed and face maybe a foot away. You try to squash the little fluttering of hope this spurs on, because he's probably still just shocked, and he's never talked about liking guy, and his cerulean loves were always 'babes,' anyways. You don't really expect him to return your affections, but you feel like it's important that he knows anyways.

"...I never knew," he mumbles after what feels like an eternity.

"I'd say that was the plan, but I wasn't exactly stingy on the hints."

"But I did guess."

You try to process this, but you can't. Your brain is fizzing out because it just doesn't make sense and he never said anything and he's looking at you again with those eyes and it feels like they can look right through you.

"I thought that maybe you were trying to court me or something. All the aggressiveness and doing weird things for me, it seemed like that's what you were trying to do, but I just...I wasn't sure. I thought for sure you would do something about it if that were the case, but then months passed, and years, and I started to think the whole shebang was in my head."

What.

"Because I was starting to wonder if maybe, gosh, if maybe it was inevitable that the two of us be more than chums, better than best buds. I remembered that I used to joke that we'd be perfect for each other, if only one of us was a girl, but then I started to wonder if that was really important. I mean, the girl part. If, oh, bugger, if maybe it would happen even though both of us were guys."

You think you can roll with this.

"So, er, maybe I'm just rambling now, but I wouldn't be entirely adverse to, uhm, to..." He trails off, fidgeting , and he's not really looking at you anymore. You wait patiently for him to continue, heart pounding in your chest so loud you're amazed he can't hear it.

"Oh, bollocks."

Suddenly his mouth bangs against yours, and you have to hold on to him this time, because you can't support your self with your other arm and he's pushing you back a bit, but he's kissing you. You've got a split lip because his teeth hit you too hard, but you don't really care, and the tang of your own blood mixes in with his taste and all you can think is fuck this is awesome. He seems to have realized he hurt you, because he awkwardly tries to suck on the injury and it feels a little weird, but it's great, really, and you're sorry when he pulls away because you think you like the warm feeling in your gut.

You struggle to keep a straight face and not grin like an idiot, raising an eyebrow instead. "Does that mean you do like those of the male persuasion? Have homoerotic affectations towards your gay best bro?"

A slow grin spreads across his face. "I dunno, chum, but...I could be up for some adventure."


End file.
